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I grew up in the 50s in the blue-collar city of Compton, California, just before it turned dangerous. I spent my youth in pool halls and bowling alleys. I had no interest in school. To make money, I delivered newspapers, set pins in the bowling alley, kept score, and even shined shoes in dive bars on Compton Boulevard. I was drafted into the Army in 1958 and spent 18 months in Germany, where I started thinking hard about what I wanted to do with my life. So I returned to Compton Junior College f… [more]

The story I’m about to tell you is about a discovery I made, a discovery that could have dreadful consequences if it were revealed to the world at large. For that reason, I’ll have to ask you to swear to never tell it to another person. Promise? OK, we can go on then.

Four Years Ago

Bobby and I were best buds, probably because no one else paid much attention to either of us. Even teachers had trouble remembering our names. I don’t blame them. We weren’t clever, cute, or likable. We certainly weren’t kids to be reckoned with.

Bobby was a total dummkopf. He couldn’t tell his rear end from a hole in the ground. I, however, knew stuff. My mom and dad were red hot Republicans, and they kept the television tuned to the Fox Network all day long, a kind of political Muzak if you will. If I wanted to, I could describe the tattoos on Tyrus’s forearm, and I could tell you what kind of ceramic animal forms the coffee cup in front of Greg Gutfield’s desk on The Five. I know stuff.

We both loved Halloween. I mean, what kid doesn’t? But Bobby loved it more than anyone because Bobby loved candy more than anyone. As a result, Bobby was a fat little kid. He was particularly fond of Gummy Bears and Abba Zabbas, a taffy candy so grippy that it could pull your teeth out if you weren’t careful. He usually bought his candy with money He stole from his mother’s purse. As I said, we weren’t very likable kids.

I know, I know, my story seems to be going nowhere… Be patient, gentle reader. Everything is under control.

A few Halloweens back, I asked Mom for one of those plastic spacemen outfits. “No deal,” she said. “You’ll just tear it up the first time you wear it.” So every year Bobby and I went out trick-or-treating as hobos. All it took was a little pole and a kerchief stuffed with paper tied to one end. We’d throw that thing over our shoulder, just like a real hobo. And of course, we rubbed brown shoe polish on our faces to resemble dirt.

There was one house in the neighborhood that everyone avoided. There’s one in every neighborhood, isn’t there? A creepy old woman lived there. She would stand on her dark porch and scream at us, her claw-like hands shaking with anger, “Get off my lawn, you stinky little brats! Get off or I’ll whip your little asses!”

Bobby was never a kid to let something like that pass him by. “Shut up, you old witch,” Bobby yelled back. “Yo mamma is so ugly that . . . .” Bobby forgot the rest of that witty response.

I don’t think Bobby should have dissed the old crone. Never diss a witch, that’s what I always say.

One Halloween, Bobby and I decided that we were going to set a Halloween record by filling an entire pillowcase full of candy. To do that, we were going to hit every house in the neighborhood. So off we went one house after the other, our pillowcase filling up fast with Sugar Babies, Skittles, and of course Abba Zabbas. Things were going well when we arrived at the old crone’s house.

“What the heck, Ash, she couldn’t see us in the dark,” Bobby said. “Let’s get ourselves some candy!” Although the house was dark, we turned into the crone’s walkway and knocked on the door. “Trick or treat,” we hollered, our voices a bit squeaky because our vocal cords had tightened up.

In just a few seconds, the old crone opened the door with a meat hook in her hand. Before we could react, she swung her hook and pierced Bobby through the shoulder. As she was dragging my screaming, struggling pal into her house, I’m not ashamed to tell you that I hightailed it out of there and hid in the bushes next to the porch.

I don’t know what I was thinking, but I almost immediately hopped back onto the porch and into the open front doorway. I think I had some kind of hairbrained scheme to rescue my best bud. I looked around the huge darkened living room and just caught sight of the old crone as she was dragging Bobby, still kicking and screaming, through a door in the far end of the room.

As I cowered in the living room, I heard a loud thump, like someone was hitting the floor. Then OMG I heard the sound of chewing and snuffling and grunting — sort of like the sound that pigs make as they snarf down their daily portion of slop.

I peeked in through the door, just barely ajar, and saw a scene that almost stopped my heart. Now I recognized the old crone: It was none other than Nancy Pelosi. And OMG, she was down on all fours, her big rump in the air, gorging herself on the splayed out body of my best bud, Bobby. And you know what made the scene even more surreal: She was all decked out in her familiar zip-up-the-back red dress, with a string of pearls around her wrinkled neck.

Pelosi had invited two of her friends, Adam Schiff and Jerry Nadler, to dine that evening, both of whom had their snouts buried deep into Bobby.

Democrats all! I should have known. This is what they do when they’re not running around the halls of Congress causing trouble. They eat little kids.

With spittle and bits of food flying everywhere, the smacking and gobbling went on for an hour or so. At one point, Adam Shiff’s thin little lips grabbed one of Bobby’s fingers and sucked on it, like he was sucking on a Milk Dud. I’d say that was fairly weird, wouldn’t you?

A warm stream of urine ran down my leg and soaked my brand new Nike running shoes. Mom was going to be pissed.

Finally, all was quiet. I slowly opened the door. Next to Bobby’s hobo pole and kerchief lay a small pile of his bones and an empty skull. That was it. The three Lefties had eaten Bobby, from his toes to his little brain.

A few feet away lay Pelosi, Nadler, and Schiff flat on their backs, their bellies grotesquely distended, their mouths agape, their lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. They had eaten themselves to death.

Democrats never know when to stop.

Postscript: If you’re wondering how Pelosi, Nadler, and Schiff, once dead as doornails, continue to haunt the halls of Congress, they are obviously now zombies.

You can tell the professor is writing fiction (if you haven’t figured it out yet) when he writes, “Bobby and me decided”.

Al, I’m not used to writing fiction, and I have trouble inhabiting the mind of someone else, particularly an fifteen-year-old. I kept reverting to my own persona as I was writing and had to keep correcting the problem.

As I read back, I still see problems. I think, “No fifteen-year-old would say that.”

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You can tell the professor is writing fiction (if you haven’t figured it out yet) when he writes, “Bobby and me decided”.

Al, I’m not used to writing fiction, and I have trouble inhabiting the mind of someone else, particularly an fifteen-year-old. I kept reverting to my own persona as I was writing and had to keep correcting the problem.

As I read back, I still see problems. I think, “No fifteen-year-old would say that.”

Wasn’t meant as a criticism. You had me going until the part about your parents watching Fox News.